Restoring The Balance
by The Ghostly Horse
Summary: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were sick of of everyone assuming they were a couple. They decide enough is enough when rumours of their 'relationship' get out of hand. They need to restore the balance and regain the standing they used to maintain. Not, I repeat, NOT Johnlock, more of the friendship chemistry seen in the BBC series.
1. Not A Couple

**_G'day. This is my first ever entry. Sorry if I get it wrong, I haven't done this before. If I step on any toes, I apologise in advance. Please read and review. Everything is welcome. I hope you enjoy it. I don't own Sherlock or John, just in case you hadn't figured._**

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were sick of everyone assuming they were a couple. It had always bugged John more than Sherlock, who generally didn't give a fig what anyone thought of him, so long as they stayed out of his air and were scared or respectful in his presence, and John had been working on building his tolerance, gritting his teeth and denying the statement resignedly. But this week had just been too much. So what if they shared a flat, so what if they worked their routines to accommodate the other, so what if they spend most of their time in the other's company? They were business partners and friends for crying out loud!

Most of the time, it was Sherlock's clients, who had now also become John's, who asked the offending question, and John had finally gotten over blushing furiously and denying it too fast; that had always made it worse, and Sherlock's indifference hadn't helped either. Not that many actually paid attention, they were always too wrapped up in their own issues to notice much more than who was listening. Generally Sherlock's reputation preceded him, and most were too nervous or respectful to say anything; which made John think they were forming rumours behind his and Sherlock's backs', and that bugged him too.

But all this was something John could accept, and deal with, and it hadn't affected the way he lived his life, after all, it was Sherlock who'd done that, and John was so very glad he had, life had gotten so monotonous. No matter how infuriating Sherlock got, which was often, the alternative was always worse. But something had shifted of late, more people were remarking on the duo's methods, their seemingly syncing of mind, their comfortable banter as Sherlock deduced and John saved lives. They were getting bolder, and stories were beginning to circulate, occasional remarks had even been made directly to John and Sherlock, and two 'clients' had even booked an appointment simply to attempt to uncover their, 'secret lifestyle'.

Sherlock had tolerated the first, a young, pretty woman, for fifteen minutes and eighteen seconds, before concluding that she was mentally deranged, and he could do nothing to help her. The second one was a middle-aged man, who swore he wasn't a journalist, but it was obvious he was, and asked the most incriminating questions. He'd lasted eight minutes and three seconds before John and Sherlock, as a unit, all but manhandled him out of their apartment. Sherlock, who always regularly checked his inbox and messages for anything interesting he and John may want to undertake, had stopped, on account of the number of letters inquiring about his and John's relationship.

**xXx**

After having solved yet another case, minor though it was, which usually left the two feeling satisfied and ready for another, John and Sherlock sat opposite one another in their small kitchen, each cradling a mug of tea and immersed in their own thoughts, neither content with the way things had ended. John sighed heavily, and looked across at Sherlock, only to find Sherlock looking straight at him, waiting, knowing, as always, what was going to happen next.

"What are we going to do Sherlock? I can't deal with it any more, it's gone too far." Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and John got ready to defend himself.

"Yes, for once I must agree with you John, certain measures need to be taken. It cannot carry on any longer." John's jaw dropped. In all the time he had spent with this uncanny, arrogant man, he had never simply agreed with him. Sure, they'd gotten on, they'd _agreed_, but Sherlock had always had to tweak, add, or replace some of John's statement with a 'more accurate' one of his own.

"Right," John fumbled, attempting to reorganise his thoughts, "What are we going to do then? We can't just let, I mean… we can't take… ahh… we, we can't let that… atrocity, to simply manifest into something worse." Sherlock pressed his hands together as John got it together, a habit John had come to know, appreciate and almost rely upon, and was Sherlock's way of engaging in something, taking it seriously.

"We, my dear John, must take some drastic measures indeed, this shall not tarnish my reputation. And frankly, I'm sick to death of all our clients not being overly impressed with me." Sherlock said earnestly. "Not that that sort of lifestyle isn't okay, because it is, but I have been informed that it has turned away five, _five_ John, clients would have otherwise presented some interesting use of our time."

John mentally rolled his eyes. Naturally, taking up time was what Sherlock was most worried about, and his reputation for being the best a close second. Although this time, it had been 'our' time to take up, as opposed to his previous obsession with 'my' time. Still 'his' reputation though, and it always would be; if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes prided himself on, it was being the best, and he would do anything to uphold that, as he'd already proven.

"Please tell me you're not going to dump me though?" John realised what he'd said, and clarified, somewhat unnecessarily, "Kick me out of Baker Street, find some other assistant, I mean?" Sherlock's wandering attention snapped back to John.

"No, of course not! Don't be absurd." John released a pent up breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and Sherlock went vague again, searching for a solution. John's thoughts returned to the previous week.

**xXx**

The week hadn't even begun normally, with that lunatic journalist snooping around. And then, when Sherlock had threatened to publicly rip apart any standing he might have in the media hierarchy, and make sure he never recovered any of it (something Sherlock had done in the past, as John had recently found out through rather unusual means), the journalist had laughed, laughed so hard he started hiccupping. John had been about to interject, lay down some dire threat, when he'd caught sight of Sherlock's face out the corner of his eye. What he saw froze him in place.

Sherlock was a man who was always in control of his emotions, never allowing a skerrick of fear, uncertainty, shock, or, God bless him, pure astonishment to show. All other emotions were readily thrown about, making him unpredictable and intimidating to others, especially when he grew angry over something seemingly inconsequential. Right now Sherlock was gaping open-mouthed at this… this idiot that had laughed in his face.

Slowly, Sherlock sat into his chair, back straighter than a board, mouth pressed in so thin a line it almost wasn't there, jawbone clenched tightly, and simply watched. As each second passed, his eyes changed, their normally greeny-blue haze fading to the palest blue, colder than ice, sharper than a dagger point. John actually felt a trickle of pity for this clearly deranged man, but didn't do anything to intervene; he had, after all, asked some very personal questions.


	2. An Annoyance

It had taken precisely eighteen seconds for the balding man to realise his mistake, laughter fading into an ominous silence as he caught sight of Sherlock's chilling look. It wasn't a stare, more like Sherlock had looked into the soul of this stocky failure of a journalist and seen the very make-up of him. There was no judgement, no anger, not even contempt, just a long, knowing yet blank look. It deeply unsettled John, but he concealed his unease and simply crossed his arms as he watched the journalist begin to sweat.

"Err… I'm so… I'm sorry for… for what I've ah… implied sirs. It were… it was all in jest." Sherlock didn't react at all, and John simply watched, enjoying the man's discomfort. "Ah… err…" He looked around helplessly, and caught sight of John leaning against the doorframe to the living room. John had become accustomed to that, becoming invisible until convenient, especially in the presence of such a personality as Sherlock Holmes.

"Dr, sir, please tell your lunatic boyfriend I was well-meaning. I didn't…" He got no further. John realised, with some surprise, that he was holding the journalist by the throat against the opposite wall, next to the lopsided smiley face imprinted on the wallpaper. He had no recollection of moving, yet here he was, not quite cutting off the air supply of this obnoxious, snooping man.

Sherlock didn't blink an eyelid, didn't move an inch; he simply sat there watching. It had looked like John was on his own, and he planned on leaving no room for speculation as to exactly was Sherlock and his relationship was. John opened his mouth to rip into the now purpling man, and nothing came out. What exactly was his and Sherlock's relationship? He'd never tried to define it before, and now he had the chance, he was lacking the vocabulary to describe the phenomenon. John had released the journalist and cleared his throat while the balding man grasped at his jugular, gasping for breath and colour flooding back into his face.

"Sherlock and I are not dating, nor were we, nor will we in any future. Is that understood? He and I solve crimes together, and he's very good at that. We are friends, and we only share an apartment because everything is so bloody expensive in this cursed city that we both love. Sherlock didn't come back from the grave for me, or because I needed him. He came back because England needed him, and he missed the thrill of the chase, the complexity of the game. So you can take your crude obsession and shove it up your arse!"

John delivered his speech in a cold fury, voice only rising at the last few words, face completely devoid of emotion (a trick he'd learned from Sherlock), looking the worthless journalist in the eye, watching as he flinched away from every word as if it were a blow.

The middle-aged man, having regained his breath, opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, nothing coming out and he merely looked like a stunned fish. John, having backed up a little after letting go of the journalist's throat, had stepped forward to stand right in front of him.

"Is that understood?" The man suddenly found his voice.

"Yes, yes. I… I understand." His eyes flickered between John and Sherlock, who, other than following the proceedings with icy eyes, hadn't shifted one whit. The journalist's eye flicking increased, and John had a bad feeling that maybe his spiel a moment ago hadn't sunk in as well as he'd hoped. Sure enough, the useless man's mouth had opened yet again.

"Are you more of the friends with benefits kind then? Or just when he's particularly unpredictable or needs a distraction?" John took a deep breath, drawing upon his very last reserves of patience and tolerance, only to be knocked almost ass over tit by Sherlock as he launched himself at the terrified man. The detective's long, bony fingers found purchase on the journalist's shoulders and dug in, crumpling a neatly pressed grey cotton jumper and making the owner yelp in a high pitched voice. Sherlock had ignored him and pulled the man to his feet none too gently.

"I think it's time you left. Before John does something he will most likely regret. He gets like that on occasion, feels remorse over ending the lives of others. I can't imagine why, he's done it enough times." Sherlock's voice had sounded pleasant enough, if subtle sarcasm was pleasant, but his face would have made a stone seen warm for all the expression it showed. John stepped up to the journalist, and even though he was an inch or two shorter, managed to tower over the cowering man. He hadn't said anything, merely looked the journalist up and down, finally grabbing an arm.

With Sherlock's unspoken help, John frogmarched the now-hysterical man down the apartment stairs, having to stop and practically break fingers to get the journalist to let go of the banister. He was deposited on the steps of 221B Baker St, John slamming the door in his face. Sherlock had turned and climbed back up the stair without a word, but John had leaned heavily against the door breathing raggedly, as if he'd just run a race.

He envied Sherlock's ability to see past all this 'trivial' stuff, as Sherlock called it, and get down to the crime solving without caring who thought what about you. But it also made for a very lonely man, and John felt torn between pity and admiration for his best friend. Upon regaining his composure, John had trudged up to their apartment.

**xXx**

John had arrived at the apartment door to find Sherlock perched on his chair, staring into space, hands pressed together. John hesitated in the doorway, and then walked in and seated himself in his chair opposite, sinking into the leather, feigning nonchalance and fooling no one. John has felt compelled to say something, but held his peace, allowing Sherlock to do whatever it was he did. And surprisingly, it was he who broke the silence.

"We. We're very good at that." It had taken John a couple of seconds to realise that Sherlock was actually addressing him.

"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock pulled his legs out from under him and sat properly, focussing on John, his eyes having regained most of their colour.

"You said to the journalist, 'he's very good at that' but you were wrong. We're very good at that." That statement had gratified John, yet he also noted, with amusement that Sherlock still had to correct him.

"Anything else I incorrectly stated that you want to point out?" There was bound to be something, there always was.

"There was one other aspect I want to make clear…" Sherlock had fallen silent, seemingly uncertain of what to say, a rarity for the consulting detective, and one John would generally have taken advantage of.

"I did come back for you John. Maybe it wasn't the only reason, but it was certainly a sizeable one. I kept watch over you, always from a distance, which I believed was for the best. It was only when I couldn't bear it anymore, that I couldn't _not _talk to you for any longer that I came to you. And only then did I realise the damage I had inflicted upon you. For that, I am truly sorry."

John had stayed silent for a long time, reflecting not just upon what Sherlock had just said, but also on what he'd confessed that night John had discovered that Sherlock hadn't dashed his brains out on the footpath outside St Bartholomew's Hospital. Whatever his friend's flaws were, John would always be there for him.

While John had sat there, processing this influx of information, Sherlock had watched with an intensity usually reserved for the questioning of clients. Not once did the slim man's gaze waver or dim. He was waiting for a reaction, a response only John could give, if he were willing. John cleared his throat roughly, and Sherlock all but stopped breathing, anticipation palpable.

"Sherlock. I understand why you had to disappear. Doesn't make me less angry, but I understand. I would rather have you find me ten years after than never. You are closer than a brother, dearer than a lover and the most important person in my life right now."


	3. Unexpected Occurrences

**Sorry for the inconsistency in updates, I do try, but I've got the attention span of a five-year-old. I'd like to thank those who reviewed, and those who are following or favourited. I simply have to mention _Lady of Something_, she's giving me great support and indirectly made me all the more determined to finish this story, see it to the end. Read and review, please.**

John saw Sherlock taking the information in, and this time it was his turn to watch and wait. Sherlock still sat on the edge of his seat, almost inhumanly still, eyes vacant yet partially still focussed on John. John had shifted into a more comfortable position, and could almost see the gears working in his friend's mind, sorting, filing away, and John never doubted that Sherlock would remember those words until his dying day. The seconds had passed into minutes, yet the silence never turned awkward, they had been friends too long for that, too accustomed to the other.

Just then Mrs Hudson had bustled into the room, pottering about, picking up the cups of tea that sat abandoned on the coffee table. She waffled on about the gall some people had, banging and stomping and shouting up and down her stairs, destroying her property, with nails on the banister no less (she had as sharp an eye as Sherlock when it came to dints and scrapes in her apartments). Her sudden arrival had startled even Sherlock, who was unflappable, and had John scrabbling for the day's paper and breathing through his nose to slow his pounding heart. Mrs Hudson had remained oblivious, now ranting on about people these days that didn't have any manners, or something of the sort, breaking off only to scold Sherlock for having somehow found another body part to add to his growing collection.

"I don't know where you got this one dear, and it seems a bit, well, disfigured." Sherlock had risen smoothly to his feet and walked over the stand beside Mrs Hudson, more than a head taller that his landlady, and observed said limb (vaguely forearm shaped, with only three digits, those more sausage than finger) closely before replying, almost absentmindedly.

"Quite right Mrs Hudson, the acetic acid left sitting in the open, and a few added ingredients, has acquired a new skill set it would seem, manipulating flesh." The owner of John's flat had turned green by this point and made a hurried excuse to depart.

"Was that entirely necessary?" John had asked Sherlock, not in the least inclined to examine this 'breakthrough' of his roommate's. "She's not exactly young, and one day you're going to cause her some permanent damage." Sherlock waved a long arm dismissively.

"You underestimate Mrs Hudson greatly, if you think a little mutation is going to affect her John." The duo had worked on their various projects for the rest of the morning, John was writing up their latest case on his now-famous blog and Sherlock slowly stripped away the deformed flesh of his newest subject, examining everything under his microscope, making the occasional note, knowing John would want to read it later, however had unwilling he seemed now. And so an hour or two passed in companionable silence, only to be broken by the harsh ring of the doorbell. Lestrade had arrived, bringing with him disaster.

**xXx**

"I've got a body Sherlock. A very famous body, high prior… Good God, what on earth is _that_?" Lestrade had broken off, staring at the dismembered arm sitting on the kitchen table in disgust and no small amount of nausea. Truthfully, John hadn't been able to look at the limb for too long either, and he'd seen his fair share of gruesome wounds. Sherlock looked up from peeling away an artery from swollen and discoloured fatty flesh at Lestrade's exclamation, confusion written plainly on his face.

"Surely you know what a forearm looks like, you have got two of them yourself." To his credit, Lestrade has just swallowed and continued.

"I need you to take a look Sherlock. This fellow was a good mate of my boss' boss, and it's my neck on the line if you don't do your thing and solve this as fast as you can." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Please. I know it's been a while, but…"

"Oh, stop fretting. Of course I'll take the case, but what's so special about this one? After your superior signed a warrant for my arrest and John punched him in the face, you've steered clear. Clearly on someone else's orders, but nonetheless you've barely visited." Sherlock rose from the kitchen stool and donned his scarf and cloak, flipping up the collar Mrs Hudson was in the habit of folding down. John has risen, pulling on a jacket over a collared shirt and grabbing the notebook and pen that lived on the table next to his couch, ready to go when Sherlock said the word. Ready and willing.

"You'll see," is all Lestrade said before leading the way downstairs.

**xXx**

As always, Sherlock had refused the offer to ride in Lestrade's police car to St Bart's mortuary, preferring one of London's many cabs, which John had never understood. The detective had been abducted, threatened and kicked out of enough to put anyone off taxis. When they arrived, Sherlock had stridden down the whitewashed corridors tossing a packet of crisps grabbed from the kitchen cupboard on the way out absentmindedly. Those were for Molly, the only pathologist in the world who would tolerate the insufferable Sherlock Holmes, and had wormed her way into his heart.

As Sherlock had entered the mortuary, he'd looked up and frozen in his tracks, causing John to apply some fancy footwork to avoid knocking them both to the floor. As it was, John had had to rest his hand on Sherlock's forearm to keep his feet. He supposed that's when it started. The reason for the tall man's sudden halt became immediately evident. Instead of the familiar petite form, mousey brown hair and shy-set shoulders in a white lab coat, there was someone else entirely.

Tall (not as tall as the consulting detective, but close), young (twenty-six, twenty-seven?) and slender, with just the right amount of curve, this female had naturally blond hair pulled in a high ponytail and a proud, well-defined jawline. While her shoes were covered and sensible, they definitely had heels and she wore the compulsory lab coat open over a crimson lacework shirt and stylish denim skirt that ended well above her knees. Her eyes were a light blue, and glittered playfully, especially when she had caught sight of Sherlock. Definitely not Molly.

Sherlock had drawn himself up, adding another inch to his already tall, well-postured frame and rounded on Lestrade, who had been standing near a gurney covered by a sheet trying not to stare at the attractive woman standing in front of him.

"Where's Molly? I only work with Molly." Sherlock's voice had lost any emotion for the second time that day. Lestrade cleared his throat noisily before replying.

"Err, she's in France at the moment, a two week holiday with her new fiancé, Tom. She won't be back until next week. I thought you knew." Sherlock had frowned, but a gentle reminder of trying to behave 'normally' by John, whispered so this blond intruder couldn't hear, had the frown wiped away and Sherlock introducing himself to Molly's temporary replacement.

"Giselle Matthews, pleased to meet you Mr Holmes. And, of course, you, his friend…?" Giselle had clearly forgotten John's name moments after he uttered it.

"John." He supplied, knowing it was immediately discarded again. She had eyes only for Sherlock, and her eyes had wandered tactlessly, taking in everything the detective had to offer.

"Don't worry Mr Holmes, I'm the best there is. Spent six years at Cambridge, two teaching. Think of me as an upgrade to your regular." That was, of course, entirely the wrong thing to say, and Sherlock had clammed up. He had refused to speak to Giselle further, except to ask abrupt questions regarding the 'famous' body.


	4. Working Together

The clean, startling while sheet was thrown away from the victim's face, revealing a neatly trimmed beard covering a square-set jaw. In fact, the whole face was rather square and neat. His eyes were closed, and there were faint creases in a weather beaten forehead. Giselle, at present unaware of Sherlock's complete contempt towards her, had pulled the covers further down (the post-mortem had been carried out while Lestrade had been sent to 'summon' Sherlock), revealing a well-toned, muscular brick torso. Everything was rectangular to some degree, biceps and triceps well defined and stocky, strong legs. As John examined him, he spoke aloud, as much to himself as to Sherlock.

"Late forties, excellent physical form, not only from the gym, this man has been places, been under extreme stress. I'd say he was in the armed forces, and up until very recently." John had noticed a network of scars around the man's left knee, fairly recent scars.

"Probably on sick leave, wound to the knee." Sherlock remained out of John's way, searching for his own set of clues, cause of death, the culprit, not touching anything and listening to John do his job. John had looked up from the body in front of him and turned to look at Sherlock, who was scrutinising the feet and opened his mouth to address an issue, but Sherlock beat him to it, murmuring to bloodless toes.

"Indeed John, and I suspect that's where we come in. I knew they'd never just let us back because we were forgiven." Sherlock straightened and strode to stand by John. "Do you notice anything else peculiar about this man?" Lestrade stopped ogling at Giselle and interrupted before John could reply.

"Wait up, what's peculiar about this fellow? All I know is that he's a mate of a high-up in the police force and rather well-know, he's dead and that it's my arse on the line if I don't get you to solve the case. I want an explanation." Both John and Sherlock had been surprised that Lestrade was still there, but as always, Sherlock recovered first.

"What's peculiar about the victim is that there is no apparent cause of death. No gunshot wound, no knife wounds, no head trauma, nothing external. Yet it is obvious by the forming bruises on his hands, elbows and forearms that he was in some scuffle shortly before his death. Did he have any recorded health problems?" The question was all but snapped at the temporary pathologist and startled her from admiring the consulting detective's rear.

"Err, oh, no. Colonel Jackson Holdsworth has a clean medical record, apart from a knee injury sustained three months ago. He was on sick lea…" Sherlock interjected brusquely.

"Yes yes, I know how the injury was sustained, and John's already concluded that he was on sick leave from it. Have you got any results concerning poisoning, internal bleeding, cause of death?" A slight pink stain had made its way across Giselle's cheeks and she looked down at the clipboard she was cradling to her chest.

"Umm, the x-rays were clean, nothing that could have killed him there. Still waiting on results for poison, drug and alcohol." Sherlock snorted contemptuously, and turned back to the body, peering over John's shoulder as he took a closer look. John had detected a faint scent, and ran his nose over the victim's hand, flipping to both sides. He straightened and answered Sherlock's previous question, about what else was odd about the Colonel.

"He's been scrubbed completely of any evidence. I can't place the smell, but it's a largely odourless disinfect. His hair's been washed, his fingernails have been cleaned and I'd guarantee his clothes are the same. And also," John waved his hands at Sherlock, getting the taller man to step back a pace and addressed Giselle, "Where's his watch and wedding ring?" Giselle and Lestrade wore matching looks of confusion, but Sherlock's face lit up with pride.

"Well done John, excellent observation. The disinfectant is cheap, but effective, and not the most common. I doubt we'll get anywhere with that though. The use of it, however, tells us a great deal. Careful, thorough and probably has worked with chemicals and erasing evidence before as shown by the cleaned fingernails and washed hair. The watch and ring, brilliant John." Sherlock had begun to warm up to this case now that it was presenting some form of challenge and was speaking with almost childlike exuberance.

**xXx**

John hadn't been able to help the grin that spread across his face, both at Sherlock's excitement and at the very unexpected praise. Generally people were too stupid for Sherlock to acknowledge, and John had to admit that it gave him a tingly feeling (not that he would ever mention that to Sherlock). Giselle had watched Sherlock's little outburst, and narrowed her eyes a little, probably put out that she'd barely been noticed despite her obvious attractiveness. She casually made her way over to Sherlock and began to rattle off what had been found with the dead man, flirting outrageously. John had sighed quietly, knowing that things were going to end badly. Sherlock burst out angrily.

"Of course there has to be a watch and ring. There's a faint tan line around his left wrist and finger. He was a married man, and no, he wasn't divorced, the line is as pale as the one on his wrist; they were worn for the same amount of time. And I can't imagine he was a fan of tardiness, being a Colonel. Hence he wore the watch permanently."

"No watch or ring was found with the body." Giselle was adamant, and John had given her points for persistency, if not intelligence. "But you can come up and check with me if you want, the stuff's in the lab." John had exchanged an amazed glance with Lestrade, wondering if the consulting detective was even aware of what Giselle was implying; surely he wasn't that blind.

"No, John and I will go over that later." Sherlock had started to pace across the doorway of the mortuary and was beginning to lose interest in the current happenings, engaging with all the little details he'd noticed and information he's deduced. John knew that very shortly it'd be a waste of time to talk to him, but before his friend mentally wandered off, John had needed his full attention. He walked over to Sherlock and stood in front of him, attracting the attention of blue-green eyes and halting long strides.

"Sherlock, this one's different, there are no obvious clues to follow, and I'm not going to hang around doing nothing. Like it or not, we need to work with the Scotland Yard this time okay? I'm going to go with Lestrade and see what I can find out about this man. Are you coming? Or are you going to lock yourself in the lab upstairs until you figure it all out?" Sherlock hesitated, and amazingly, his eyes flickered to Giselle before flashing back to John's.

"I'm coming with you." Giselle, instead of looking disappointed, merely adopted a thoughtful expression, tapping a manicured finger against straight teeth. Lestrade, who had finally decided to have a look at the body rather than the examiner, protested at being told what to do.

"Hold on, I'm having a look here. You had plenty of time." Sherlock had been merciless, and stated in a slightly superior tone.

"Oh, you had plenty of time to examine another body Lestrade, it's not our fault it was the wrong one" Which had made the detective inspector blush furiously and stalk out of the building, followed by a chortling John and Sherlock.

**I have a vague idea where this whole story's going, and my final chapters are all but concrete, but the middle a little blurry. I'd appreciate any ideas about what the cause of death is, or what the circumstances were. Reader input, here's your chance to have a say in what you read. I cannot guarantee that I'll use your idea, but I'd love to read what you come up with. Please review**


	5. Not So Golden

**Sorry for taking so long! I mean, I'm really sorry. It's been sitting around, three quarters finished for about five days, and only today did I actually summon the energy to do something about it. Sick, at home, y'know how it is. I hope you like this chapter, things are beginning to happen, sorta. I'd also like to apologise in advance, 'cause I have a bad feeling that it'll be a while before I get the next chapter out. Please don't lose faith in me, 'cause then I know I won't finish this. Anyway, this is a shout out for _Lady of Something_ and_ Ballykissangel_, thanks for your... adoration? I don't think that's the right word, but anyway. Please read and review, seriously.**

The taxi ride had been brief and silent, with Sherlock filing away facts and doing whatever it was the consulting detective did when on a case that proved worthy. John had been content to sit and watch London pass by his tinted window, noticing the dark clouds gathering overhead, promising for a wet evening. They reunited with Lestrade on his office, with Sergeant Donovan lingering in the corner like a bad smell. Sherlock had gotten straight to the point.

"Right, we're here now, time this case started going places. Where's everything you've got on Colonel Holdsworth?" This time Lestrade was ready and waiting.

"All the files we've got and can get are sitting in the spare interrogation room, there's a laptop up and running for you, and a microscope if you need it. I didn't see you collect anything though, why's that? You always collect samples." Lestrade had paused awkwardly, then bulled on anyway. "Was that Giselle woman telling the truth when she said she was better than Molly? Didn't you need to check anything she'd written up?"

Sherlock had frozen in the act of opening Lestrade's glass door, the hand on the handle suddenly going white from his grip on it. Looking straight ahead, Sherlock had answered in a tone so low and menacing it was all but a growl. John had felt the vibrations through his very bones.

"Nobody is more competent than Molly Hooper, nor will there ever be. Her temporary stand-in is a complete waste of everyone's time. Especially mine." And with that had wrenched to door open and left.

John had been in the act of intervening on Molly's behalf as well, but was left with little to say after that. He had followed Sherlock out of the office, suggesting to Lestrade that Sherlock remained undisturbed unless someone wanted their intestines yanked out through their noses. John was the only one who had any chance of calming the tall man down, but frankly, he was content to let Sherlock have a go at them today, it might teach them to let sleeping dogs lie, or in this case, let the consulting detective come to his own conclusions, because they were probably going to be correct.

**xXx**

The interrogation room was stark and small, with just enough room for a metal table with two matching chairs and a square metre or so of ugly carpet. The table did indeed house a computer and several official-looking files, which had been tossed into an untidy pile. It was either Donovan or Anderson then who'd brought everything in here. The Scotland Yard held the prize for the most OCD sufferers in the one building, so you had to really hate someone to go against compulsion that strong. Sherlock had already discarded scarf and coat and settled himself in one of the chairs but hadn't picked anything up, merely staring at the one-way window opposite.

John had pulled up the remaining pathetic excuse of a chair and started reading through Colonel Holdswoth's files, hoping something would stand out. John hadn't been expecting Sherlock to contribute, and he didn't disappoint. For three hours, John read through everything the Scotland Year could offer, and absolutely nothing stood out. John had sighed and tossed the last folder back onto the small table. Sherlock had finally unfrozen after about an hour and was glued to the screen of the computer, chasing up something or other, muttering to himself.

"There's nothing. Absolutely nothing that I can use here. I knew you always said that the Scotland Yard was useless, but I thought that was just you. One of those folders is full of newspaper clippings. Newspaper clipping that all say the same thing! That he was the best bloody Colonel the British army has seen, that it was tragic that they'd had to remove him from such an important task and that they hope he'll be back soon. Well, he won't. He's dead!"

John had started pacing by the end and was gesturing wildly at his tall friend who wasn't even looking. "How do we glean anything about someone who was perfe…" John trailed off as something occurred to him, and Sherlock smiled and looked at John.

"Good, good. You've finally come to the conclusion I reached two hours ago, when I actually turned my attention to the case at hand." John had sat down heavily in his chair and scowled at Sherlock.

"You could've let me know. I just wasted three hours. Three hours that we could have been doing something, not just sitting in a cramped room!" Sherlock looked slightly taken aback, a small crease appearing between his brows.

"I thought you disliked it when I showed off, or didn't let you come to your own conclusions?" John sighed heavily.

"For God's sake Sherlock, since when have you cared before? And I meant people's everyday lives; I don't like it when you tell me their life story after merely glancing at them." Sherlock's only response was to return to the computer screen and grunt noncommittally. John had sighed but expected no less. He walked over to the door and had been about to go out and grab a bite to eat when Sherlock interrupted.

"John, here. Please"

"This had better be worth it Sherlock, else I'm walking." Sherlock spun the computer screen around to face John and John's eyes had widened slightly at the information on it. It looked like Colonel Holdsworth wasn't as perfect as everyone thought.

As a teen he's been arrested three times for minor robberies and twice for destruction of property. That certainly wasn't on his criminal record. Nor was the assault of an officer at age twenty-one, and he'd had to serve fourteen months for that, until an anonymous party bailed him after just three months. With a record like that, the armed forces certainly wouldn't have accepted Holdsworth so willingly, if at all. This was certainly news.

"How'd you manage to find this? Holdsworth's gold in the public's eye, this'd have to be hidden well." Sherlock smiled smugly.

"I have my ways, and as a retired soldier, it's best this remains unspoken." John hadn't argued; Sherlock was probably right.

"Well, this could give us something to go on. You figured out who the anonymous party is yet?" Sherlock had clicked his tongue in frustration. "No, I can't find anything on that, nor on who submitted the false records of the Colonel." John smirked at the tall man's obvious irritation.

"C'mon, lets go back to St Bart's and go over the Colonel's personal items, you might get something from that. And besides, I've got a numb arse, I need to move around."

**xXx**

John walked out the door and held it for Sherlock as he did up his scarf and donned his coat, making sure the collar was up. John had rolled his eyes at that, but only when his friend wasn't looking. Together they walked into the pouring rain that John had known would make an appearance and attempted to hail a taxi, with John wishing his had a coat like Sherlock's, which was sheltering him substantially more than John's sodden grey thing. Almost as if reading his mind, the detective approached John, having to raise his voice to be heard over the pounding rain.

"Come here John, you're getting saturated. I can't afford for you to get sick, this is our busiest season." Sherlock had held out one side of his famous accessory, the implication obvious. John was tired of being absolutely battered by freezing needles and didn't hesitate to duck into the slight reprieve, shoes still getting filled with water. Finally a cab deigned to pull up and he and Sherlock bundled into the blessedly warm and dry vehicle, dripping all over the interior shamelessly. Neither noticed Donovan watching from a window.

The trip was short, thanks to the lack of traffic and soon the detective and his doctor had to dash for the cover of St Bartholomew's hospital. As they made their way yet again down the white corridors they attempted to wring out their sodden clothing, with little success. Despite this, the rain had brought out a childlike exuberance in the two friends and they had a hard time fighting off manic grins while others in the hospital could still see them.


	6. A Revelation

**Just a form of written apology for taking a while, and, well, who doesn't love Molly? This doesn't directly link to any events in the past or further on, just a sappy revelation on our favourite pathologist's behalf. **

**Also, sadly, this is just to let whoever's reading this know something. While I dearly love my reviewers and favouriters and followers, there simply aren't enough reviews for the amount of views. There's no incentive, and I don't know if it's wothwhile to continue. I mean, I try for the sake of my reviewers, but I need feedback. Even if it's to let me know what I could change to make the tale more compelling or something of the sort. Please read, please review.**

Molly was enjoying herself, she really was, but there was something missing. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on and it was making her restless. France was wonderful, and her fiancé, Tom was the perfect gentleman, but there was still something _off_. Looking around the small but comfortable hotel bedroom they'd booked for their stay, Molly quietly rolled out of Tom's loose embrace, pulling of a silk robe against the nipping breeze that snuck silently through the opened windows of their rooms. Tom was almost unreasonably claustrophobic and couldn't stand a room with at least one window open.

Molly looked over at the sleeping man, who had rolled away from her when she had gotten up. With his back to her, he looked very much like someone else, especially as he'd let his hair grow out in the past few months. Molly gently shook that thought out of her head; that door was closed to her now, and she found that she didn't mind anymore. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were the best sort of friends anyone could ask for; they made her laugh and were fiercely protective. Which is why she still hadn't quite worked up the nerve to arrange a meeting of more than a few minutes with them around Tom, she needed to take the measure of Sherlock's interest in her fiancé before setting the two loose. She knew who would come off worse.

Suddenly it hit her. She knew what was missing. She had long since given up contact with family members, and for a long while her world had shrunk to her cat, fleeting boyfriends and co-workers. When Sherlock had showed up, she had been fascinated. He'd been so startlingly different, she couldn't help but fall for him. After that horrible Christmas dinner (Molly tried to forget that night, is was still painful) she'd been jolted back into reality, and realised that she only wanted him as a friend. Over time, Sherlock and John had adopted Molly into their little family, Mrs Hudson welcoming her warmly; even Mycroft had become something other than a faceless force herding the country through the smoothest pass. She had a life now, a family of her own, and she was missing it.

Finally knowing what had been chafing her settled Molly and she lay down next to Tom. She could last another week of peace, away from the bustling of London, she was sure. Closing her eyes, Molly drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a family that proved blood wasn't needed for love to be selflessly given.


End file.
